


Come Home

by oharlem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Angst, Drabble, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oharlem/pseuds/oharlem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're singing 'Deck the Halls', but it's not like Christmas at all; I remember when you were here and all the fun we had last year.<br/>If there was a way, I'd hold back these tears, but it's Christmas day...<br/>Baby, please, come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> Just an angsty, Post-Reichenbach, Johnlock drabble. I might make this into a collection of Christmas drabbles for various fandoms, but only time will tell. Almost done with the first chapter of Red Flag and Winter Break is soon, so I'll have time to write. Expect a Christmas fanfiction overload.  
> Enjoy~  
> -Misfit

“Deck the hall with boughs of holly.”  
“Falalalala-lala-lala.”

John Watson measures time in two ways: Before Sherlock and After Sherlock and Before the Fall and After the Fall. Christmas Before Sherlock was always dull, just him with Chinese takeout and an old record; Christmas After Sherlock was bright, full of colour and life and laughter. That was Before the Fall. Before the Fall, he was happy, Before the Fall everything was right where it should have been, Before the Fall, he was alive. 

John Watson hates winter, now. He hates the songs and the snow and cold, he hates the coats and scarves and ice, he hates the vendors selling coffee and the warmth of Angelo’s at night. But, most of all, he hates Sherlock. He hates Sherlock for leaving him alone and heartbroken with a lifelong bittersweet relationship with London in the winter. Everywhere John goes, he is reminded of After Sherlock, of Before the Fall. The museum, the Scotland Yard, the hospital, every time he passes the buildings he is haunted by his best friend’s ghost. 

Children are laughing on the sidewalk while their parents drink coffee in the shops. Christmas carols ring out through the downtown area and groups of people are laughing, drunk on eggnog and rum. He used to be one of those people sitting in the restaurants with their coats draped over the chair backs, he used to laugh and smile and sing his Christmas cheer.

The snow is falling faster now as John wanders past the shops and diners and merry carolers. Left, right, left, right, one foot in front of the other, just like his days Before Sherlock. It is 11:59 on Christmas Eve and John Watson is once again lost in his memories.

As the church bells cheerfully toll Christmas Day, John sees the ghost of years past, of him and Sherlock racing down the streets after a taxi cab, of them eating at Angelo’s on a Not-Date, of them escaping their flat hand-in-hand.

It is Christmas day and John Watson is alone.

A flash of dark against light, a swish of an old coat turning, a flutter of a blue scarf in the chilled wind. John sees a ghost, Sherlock sees a broken man. 

Leaning against the brick wall of an unnamed building, John tips his head back and lets out a choked plea.  
Sitting on the roof of the store opposite, Sherlock clenches his fists and makes a silent promise.

“Please, come home.”  
“Soon.”


End file.
